Pin Cushion

You knew the way the room smelt, the scratchy feeling of the coverless mattress, the way the lace would dangle off the edges of the desks, the broken sewing machine tucked away into the back corner. you knew all about it; it was a place of creation.

On that mattress, she used my shoulders like pin cushions. My mouth hadn't been sewn shut, so i cried out to her. Her ears weren't sewn shut, and that's how i knew i was in a bad situation.

That day i was left with loose threads hanging off my body, and feeling as though my dignity had been torn away from me.

Its a story that i have recounted to you many times in many different words. 

Despite all this, you are still her mannequin. your hollow plastic body remains as her companion, whether it be because she drapes you in well-made fabrics called validation, or any other reason i am unaware of.

You still knew, and all i hope for is you still know. Such a vile act should never be forgotten, even if she didn't preform so on you.

I spent long amounts of time waiting for someone with delicate hands, someone able to wield both a needle and thread; someone who could sew me back up.

When all i truly needed was someone to say:

"It wasn't your fault, you didnt deserve that"